


Whipping Boy

by Yessica



Category: The Umbrella Academy (TV)
Genre: Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Canonical Character Death, Child Abuse, Corporal Punishment, Dysfunctional Family, Gen, Guilt, I'm sorryyyyy, Luther-centric, Reginald Hargreeves breaking the record for worst dad in the world, Reginald Hargreeves' A+ Parenting, Self-Esteem Issues, Self-Harm, Self-Hatred, Self-Inflicted Punishment
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-24
Updated: 2020-07-14
Packaged: 2021-01-02 14:55:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,244
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21163490
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Yessica/pseuds/Yessica
Summary: Whipping boy, noun - A boy raised as a friend to a prince and who receives punishment in his stead.Being an outcast in your own family is one of the worst things imaginable. Then again, being Number One isn't exactly a walk in the park either. For when a team fails, it is their leader who takes the fall.





	1. A Childhood Occurrence

**Author's Note:**

> This is just 1500+ words of self-indulgent angst sprinkled with headcanons and I will not apologize. I might add to this if the mood strikes me-

Their father made them stand at attention as soon as they got home. They fell into line easily, naturally, like it was the most normal thing for them to do. Six children with their backs straight and their hands clasped behind them, breath just slightly rattled from the adrenaline and the close call, trying to suppress the exhilarated laughter in their guts.

And Vanya in the doorway, leaning against the wall in silence, watching them.

Their father waited. He didn't say anything, didn't need to. They quieted down in a matter of seconds, bodies growing tense under his scrutiny. From the corner of his eye, Luther could see Klaus bumping his elbow into Five's side playfully.

It wasn't until all was silent that their father finally decided to speak. "I certainly hope none of you were satisfied with your performance today." His voice sharp in its suddenness.

None of them answered because it wasn't actually a question. They kept their faces straight, their eyes trained on the wall, as their father paced in front of them. They were ten and they had already learned to only answer when directly spoken to. Luther tried hard to keep his breathing even, clenching his fingers against the uncomfortably feeling building in his gut. He squared his shoulders slightly, posture stiff as a board but leaning back onto his heels a bit.

"Calling it a performance might be too generous," their father continued, cane scraping against the floor with every movement. "A disappointment would be more precise. You are fortunate only in that there were no casualties." He stopped in front of Luther, pale eyes filled with detachment. Luther often had thought those eyes might be colorless, devoid of anything. "You know that blood would have been on your hands, number one."

He swallowed. "Yes, father."

"You are all guilty of squandering your powers. Like aimless children, you treat your training as a game." His frown traveled down the line but none of Luther's siblings were foolish enough to meet their father's gaze. "As if the faith of the world did not lie solely on your shoulders."

He turned back to Luther. "But in the end, we know who should truly be held accountable for this negligence. Tell me why, number one."

It took a lot of effort for him to meet those eyes. "Because a team will always only be as good as its leader. Our success is my responsibility."

"Quite right." Their father stepped back, indicated the middle of the room with his cane. Luther followed slowly, trying to stop the insistent hammering of his heart against his ribcage. "And when one neglects their duty, punishment is in order."

Luther nodded, looking past his father at Vanya standing in the doorway, the way she fidgeted with the sleeves of her uniform. She looked worried so he tried to smile reassuringly at her, though judging by the paleness of her face it wasn't very convincing.

"Turn around. Your siblings need to know the consequences of their actions," Reginald commanded, so Luther did, hands dropping to his sides.

The first blow came so unexpectedly it knocked the air out of him and almost forced him to his knees. It was only the many years of training and the knowledge that his punishment would only be harsher if he buckled now that kept Luther on his feet.

His father held back a few seconds between each hit, waiting for the sting to subside before delivering the next one, the pain blooming all across his back. Luther didn't make a sound, biting his lip hard enough to taste blood against his tongue while he lost count of how often he got struck. If he could keep the pain from showing on his face maybe he hadn't failed after all.

Then he felt the cane come down on the back of his neck hard, making him stumble forward and almost lose his balance, gasping in pain. Allison's cry rang out sharply, but Diego had grabbed her wrist, keeping her steady.

"Dad-" It was Ben who had spoken first, voice soft and vulnerable and Luther hated himself. Hated himself for being so weak. For not even being able to endure even this much. "Dad, we're sorry, Please, it won't happen again, we're sorry-"

"Being sorry does not right a wrong," Reginald simply said, waiting for Luther to get up. "If I don't teach you now, you will never learn. Perhaps going forward you will think twice before acting recklessly again."

Luther didn't move, staring at the ground instead. He didn't want any of the others to see the tears stinging at the corners of his eyes right now.

Their father started leaving the room, stopping in the doorway only to add: "Number one shall now go to his bedroom, where he will remain for the next 48 hours. He shall not leave his room under any circumstances unless it is to partake in missions. You are not allowed to see or speak with him during this time."

His departure was followed by a few seconds of tense silence as if he had taken their ability to speak with him, but before they could regain their senses their mother was already crowding the others into the kitchen, mumbling something about listening to their father and freshly baked cookies, leaving Luther to make his way to his room quietly, stubbornly keeping the tears at bay until he had closed the door behind himself.

* * *

It wasn't until a few hours later that he was pulled out of his thoughts by somebody knocking. He figured it was probably Mom bringing him dinner, but when he opened the door it was Vanya who quickly slipped inside, pushing the door close again with her foot.

"Van-" he began, but she motioned for him to be quiet with one finger over her lips, waiting. Luther could hear heavy footsteps across the hallway now, passing by his room before they disappeared down the stairs. She sighed.

"What are you doing here?" he asked, watching her sit down on his bed. She was carrying some kind of towel-wrapped parcel. "Dad said you guys aren't allowed to see me."

Vanya frowned for a moment, her eyes on the floor instead of looking at him. "I uh- I don't think he meant me. He wasn't talking to me, right?"

"Oh," Luther breathed but didn't argue. Their father had most certainly also been talking to Vanya and they both knew it. But not only was this a point of contention that often caused discomfort between them, but this also wasn't the worst use of the loophole this provided his sister for getting around their father's rules. "You still shouldn't have."

"Why?" Vanya asked, hands clumsy as she undid the knot around the towel. The sincerity behind that word made Luther answer without a second thought.

"Because I deserve this."

Vanya stilled for a moment. Luther watched her, the way her bangs made shadows across her face and made her almost unreadable. She shook her head. "That's not true, Luther."

"It's punishment," he said instead, the line sounding rehearsed even to his own ears because it was. A mantra whispered to himself so often before, whenever he took the fall for their wrongdoings. When he ran those extra laps because Klaus complained about being tired. When he went to bed without dinner because Five talked at the table. "I need to take my responsibility and make things right." Whispering it in the dark over and over until maybe he could believe his father's words.

Even if it had never been this bad before.

His sister didn't answer. Luther could have predicted she wouldn't understand. This was something that was beyond her, beyond the others even. This was his duty, the only thing he was good for. If he couldn't do this right then what use did he have?

"What did you bring?" he asked instead, plopping down onto the mattress beside her and ignoring the somberness on her face or the thoughts creeping around in his mind.

"It's not much but," Vanya started, revealing the plate of cookies she had so expertly stowed up the stairs. "Five helped me steal them since he's better at that than I am."

As much as the idea of ignoring their father's direct orders didn't sit right with Luther, he did have to admit their mother's chocolate chip cookies were worth the repercussions which their disobedience might incur. "Thank you," he said, taking one and stuffing it into his mouth eagerly. He didn't have dinner yet. "And thank Five too, I guess."

Vanya smiled again for the first time since coming in, tucking her hair behind her ear. "Ben told me to bring this as well, but I don't know if it will help?" she told him, revealing the ice pack their mom kept in the freezer for small accidents. "Does it still hurt?"

"Not really," he lied. He had stood in front of the mirror earlier when he was changing into his pajamas, watching the bruises forming on his back. They were bright red now, long streaks in the shape of the cane that struck him, but Luther knew they would fade into darker colors over the next few days and in a few weeks there wouldn't be anything left. "It isn't that bad."

"If you say so," Vanya muttered but she looked more than a little doubtful. "I guess you're used to it, with the missions and all."

"Pretty much."

They sat in silence for a bit, Luther scarfing down cookies rapidly while Vanya stared at the model airplanes hanging from his ceiling. The window was open and they moved slightly in the breeze, plastic propellors spinning in lazy circles.

"It still isn't fair," she said then, shoulders hunched and hands clasped and she looked tiny. So much smaller than she ever had before. Like maybe it was her that carried the weight of the world on her shoulders.

And Luther, who did not know how to explain to her that this was exactly what he deserved.


	2. The Day You Died

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So it turns out inspiration did strike me! As well as the comments on the previous chapter sparking some ideas. Mind some of the new tags, including the "self-harm" one...
> 
> Still might do more of these as I want to delve into the other siblings' reaction to this going on too-

Vanya remembers the first time a civilian died on one of their missions.

She remembers the coldness. Her fingers curled around the metal bar on the eave of the roof, jagged edges digging in just a bit too sharply. She didn't feel it then, hands numb from the icy wind whipping around the building, but she would notice later by the small imprints the cast iron had left in her skin.

The woman was lying prone, limbs stretched out at awkward angles and their father hadn't brought out his binoculars today, their vantage point too close to need them. Which meant Vanya saw everything. The way the woman's blonde hair made a halo around her head and the dark stain on her coat that kept growing larger by the second. How her chest convulsed, her eyes opening too wide for comfort – stricken with fear. Vanya could see her siblings, frozen as if time had stopped, a picture taken at the penultimate moment, and then framed in her mind forever.

Five was the first to move. Vanya inhaled a shallow breath, curled her fingers tighter still, and in the fraction it took her to blink everything had changed again. Her stomach twisted, a tightness creeping up the back of her throat and making it hard to breathe. For the remaining time it took her siblings to finish the mission, all Vanya was looking at was that body, perfectly still.

They were twelve years old.

On the way home, Vanya fidgeted with her sleeves, caught hold of one loose thread, and pulled until part of it unraveled. Their father didn't say anything, not as he ushered them out of the car, not as they lined up in the living room, not even as Luther took a step forward. Vanya stood at the back of the row, something her father would never have allowed had he been paying her more mind. But he wasn't and so she stood there, feeling the distant sense of finally belonging when she held one of Ben's hands tightly in her own.

Ben squeezed back gently, then vice-like as a sudden strike send Luther sprawling.

Their father had never struck him in the face before.

They didn't do anything – experience had long taught them things would only get worse for all of them if they did – but Vanya noticed how the tension skyrocketed. Diego squared his shoulders. Five crossed his arms. But they didn't _do_ anything.

Luther crawled back onto his knees, wiping his face with one arm and there was blood running down his chin, pouring from his nose. The stains didn't show up against the jacket's dark fabric but left a bright smear against the paleness of his face. Vanya knew their father had hit him with the heavy handle of his cane.

“This is why I can't trust you,” Reginald said, the ring of his voice was sharp and distinct. He wasn't talking to Vanya, wasn't talking to any of them except Luther. His brow furrowed in a way that made every angle of his face stand out. “This is why you keep disappointing me.”

“Yes father,” Luther answered, lowly. Like it hurt just to speak and Vanya felt nauseous to her very stomach.

They were twelve.

Clawing one hand into the short strands of Luther's hair, their father hauled him upright and out of the room, Luther struggling to get onto his feet and follow instead of just being dragged along. The door to the office slammed shut harder than they had ever heard it before, harder than Vanya could recall it ever being closed in her face even. They simply stood there, staring at the floor and at each other. At the drops of blood on the hardwood floor that their mother was already fussing over.

They didn't see their brother for a week.

There were no missions during this time, nor any training. Luther's room stayed empty, but the sheets and pillow of his bed were missing. Klaus asked about it only once, at dinner. His tone was casual, like he didn't really care either way, but Vanya could detect the nervousness beneath the surface. Their father brought one fist down onto the table, hard enough for their silverware to clatter, and chided them for speaking during mealtimes. Mother would only tell them Luther would be back shortly.

And when he did come back, they didn't even talk about it.

Luther brushed them off, expression set in stone - resolve etched into bone - and told them it had been dealt with. That he had taken his responsibility. That he was fine.

Nobody had believed him. But Allison had smiled and when Luther smiled back, it revealed the empty gap where a tooth had been.  
  


* * *

Luther doesn't remember the first time a civilian died on one of their missions.

He knows her name, her face, her family. The cutout newspaper article posted on the day after that mission is pasted in the back of a black-bound notebook, along with others like it. Seven in total, of times he has fucked up and gotten somebody killed. He keeps their pictures because seeing those makes it real and making it real means he can learn.

But he doesn't remember the day itself or the week that came after.

There is a foreign haze of past pain that might have belonged in that week, uncomfortable walls and starved hunger but nothing more. Their father with his coat removed, his cufflinks unbuttoned and rolled up to his elbows, telling him: “Maybe if the pain is real, you will learn, number one. Maybe they will learn.”

They hadn't learned. It happened six more times, after all.

But it's only the last time that Luther relives most vividly. The time that Ben died.

And they weren't kids anymore. Maybe that's why their father had handed him the cane, told him that if he was truly ready to take responsibility this time, he had to do it by himself.

Luther did – he always did – and with each blow, Father laid out the burden of blame.

“Before, you were only ever playing with stranger's lives, number one. Grasp the meaning of this.”

He outstretched his hand, splayed open his fingers, and maybe if he didn't restrain himself something would break.

“But now, you have ruined something truly irreplaceable.”

There was just iron on his tongue, replacing all sense of taste.

“Not only that, but death caused by action rather than inaction. Do you realize what this means, number one?”

Luther wanted to rip his own skin off. “It means,” he growled out, between gasps of pain, “that I killed him.”

Their father nodded his approval, the conclusion already forlorn but it only had to sink in. Sink in deep somewhere he could never pry it out of his brain again. Wanting it to become something he wouldn't forget.

“No dinner,” Reginald said as he took his cane back, wiped it with a pristine white handkerchief that would surely be ruined now. “You will inform your siblings about what happened when you see them tomorrow.”

Luther didn't answer. His obedience did not need verbal confirmation anymore.

He didn't even have to wait that long. Vanya came perhaps an hour later – she always came in times like these. There was something soft there, about abandonment and neglect, and knowing what it felt like to be forgotten, but Luther could not decipher it between the pain clouding the forefront of his mind.

If it could even be put into words, they were probably the kind neither of them could understand. Because they were eighteen now, and not kids anymore.

“What happened?” she asked, putting the plate of whatever she smuggled upstairs this time onto the bedside table. Luther didn't think he could bring himself to eat it, no matter how much he might have wanted to, sickened by the mere thought.

He didn't deserve it.

“I killed him.” The information was delivered clinically. It was a fact stated at the end of a page, dropped between the lines with no space for arguments. The denial had burned out of him the first time his father had told him and all that was left was detached acceptance. “I killed Ben, Vanya.”

Her weight sunk down on the bed. Luther had his eyes closed but he could tell she was studying his face, probably with that same pinched expression he has gotten used to, trying to search for words of dissuasion.

Vanya would never understand.

“You didn't-” she started and he cut her off easily, hand on her wrist. Her pulse was rapid beneath his fingertips.

“You weren't there!” Vanya flinched at the accusation and his grip was probably too tight, pressing bruises into her skin. Luther felt incredibly guilty, but it was only a small drop in a trickle of self-hate that had long since been leading to the ocean of failures he had to account for. One more thing to feel remorseful about would not make a difference.

“I got him killed,” he said softer, letting go and she pulled her arm back gingerly, dark eyes fixed on his. “It was my fault he died so that's the same.” Sitting in silence, the words solidified in his mind, permanently taking root. “I deserve this.”

And unlike all the other times, Vanya did not contradict him.

**Author's Note:**

> [my Tumblr](http://sharada-n.tumblr.com/)


End file.
